


Fashion Police: 1967

by tinuelena



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:49:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuelena/pseuds/tinuelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya, Napoleon, and Gaby go undercover as German television presenters on the red carpet at the Academy Awards. Their mission: stop a terrorist from killing the producers of a gritty documentary on the ongoing war in Vietnam. Written as a crack-y prompt fill for capjustbeinglokilicious, who wanted fashion banter. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fashion Police: 1967

April 7

Los Angeles, California

 

                "You have got to be kidding me. Isn't espionage about-- you know-- secrecy?"

                Waverly was getting impatient with Napoleon. "Look, Solo. It's not going to actually be broadcast. You'll simply be at the red carpet, providing commentary and looking at the camera as if you were being broadcast. There's no other way to get you access."

                "You couldn't just get an invitation for Peril or me and have one of us bring Gaby as a guest?"

                "If we would have had more warning? Yes. Unfortunately, we didn't. There's also the matter of our suspicion that the president of the Academy is working with the suspected terrorist group, so asking him to smuggle in two spies to thwart those very terrorists may prove counter-intuitive, don't you think?"

                Solo sighed. While the Vietnam War raged on, a group of American filmmakers intent on revealing the atrocities committed against the people of Vietnam by American soldiers had embedded themselves in the country to shoot footage. Not unlike spies, they went undercover in the most dedicated of ways; by volunteering for the very army they were so against. Once they were deployed, they shot footage and conspired with locals to get it sent back to the States to their partners, who assembled a documentary from the film and from the letters they sent home.

                The documentary was a smash hit, causing a great deal of controversy in the United States, and even garnered a response from the President. It had been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature. However, while celebrated by the film community and protesters of the Vietnam War, pro-war groups viewed it as enemy propaganda. And they had discovered, three short days ago in Los Angeles, that a certain pro-war group was so offended by the content that they were ready to wage war on the Academy-- quite literally-- to prove their point.

                Though the Americans and the Soviets were on different sides of the conflict, as usual, Illya and Napoleon had to set their national allegiances aside to complete the mission for U.N.C.L.E. Interestingly enough, the trio agreed on the politics of the matter; the inclusion of American troops in the conflict was a disaster. And they certainly agreed that-- no matter what-- a bunch of innocent bystanders didn't deserve to die because a small group of people didn't appreciate American soldiers being depicted as villains.

                But Napoleon still wasn't so sure about Waverly's methodology.

                And neither was Gaby, for that matter. "Look," she said, "This makes sense. Except putting me in front of the camera."

                "You are a stylish, attractive young woman," said Waverly, confused. "You are precisely the type of person people would expect to see hosting a show about fashion."

                "Except that I'm a mechanic who spent most of my life wearing oil-stained overalls," she said. "Anything stylish about the way I dress is thanks to Illya."

                "Semi-stylish," said Napoleon. "He's got you in a Balmain dress with shoes by Prada."

                "You are narrow-minded," Illya sneered. "Different designers can be good match."

                "Their design philosophies are completely different."

                "Opposites attract."

                "And bow ties went out in the fifties, Peril."

                Waverly watched this verbal tennis match with amusement. "New plan. I'll fly over another agent from MI6 tonight. He'll work as the cameraman."

                Illya and Napoleon turned to him.

                "You two are more qualified to run a fashion show than Teller. She can mediate, but I'm putting both of you out there."

                Illya, who had been pegged to stand behind the camera, blanched. "My accent..."

                "All three of you speak German. There are four German-born nominees this year, and a West German film is up for Best Foreign Language Film. There's every reason for a German crew to be here. And Kuryakin, your German accent is flawless."

                Gaby nodded. "It is."

                "Right, then, that's settled. I'll make the call. Kuryakin, you'll need a suit."

                Wide-eyed, he looked at Napoleon.

                "Don't wear a bow tie," he chided.

                Illya didn't miss a beat. "It is black tie, Solo. Of course I will wear bow tie."

                Waverly nodded his head appraisingly. "Yes. Yes, this will be perfect."

 

 

April 10

Santa Monica, California

 

 

                Feeling out of place clutching a microphone, Gaby stood between the two pillars that were Illya and Napoleon. She smiled into the camera. "Here comes Elizabeth Taylor," she said in German, having decided to stick to announcing the stars, "wearing a very interesting ensemble."

                "Interesting," Napoleon said, "until it becomes too much to look at. Head-to-toe translucent sequins AND wrists wreathed with feathers? It's as if she stuck her hand up an ostrich's--"

                "The jewels are lovely," Illya interjected, "square-cut emeralds surrounded by diamonds. Fit for any queen."

                "Her title isn't Queen Elizabeth," Napoleon argued.

                "She played Queen Cleopatra--"

                "--and you can't match regal jewelry with plastic sequins fit for a discotheque." He tilted his head, daring Illya to argue.

                "I quite like the contrast."

                "We have established that your taste is unrefined. I suppose you like the color of the dress?"

                He wrinkled his nose. "No."

                "Emesis _chic_ ," Napoleon said. "Ah, and here comes the complementary function."

                "Lynn Redgrave," Gaby announced, "in Versace."

                Illya blinked. "What is that color?"

                "If you're a new parent and you've changed a diaper," Napoleon said, "you've seen this color."

                Illya had to stop himself from calling him a crass American. "It is the color of mahogany trees," he countered. "It looks marvelous with her hair. Very elegant; feels like ball gown, but without bulk."

                "The only saving grace of that ensemble," Napoleon said, "is her shoes."

                The actress wore clunky heels with a wide buckle. "She is not secretary at law firm," Illya said. "Why match simple glamour with hideous shoes?"

                The words barely registered with Gaby. She had taken the primary responsibility of keeping an eye out for the suspected terrorist. They'd all studied the photo of Jim Conway-- he was fairly nondescript, with a boy-next-door face and an all-American crew cut. They had no idea about his cover; it wasn't mentioned in the conversation they'd overheard, and even after bugging everything they could, there had been no reference to the plan which wasn't encoded. Therefore, they were watching everyone: camera crews, reporters, the red carpet, waiters, _everyone._

                "Raquel Welch. A stunning, breathtaking vision in gold,” Napoleon gushed, as Gaby's attention was focused elsewhere. "What gorgeous detailing on her gown. The scalloped v-neck adds a layer of intrigue to an otherwise classic silhouette."

                "I think," Illya said, "no matter how many compliments you shower on her, she will not agree to be your date tonight."

                He scowled at Illya. "Nor yours."

                Illya just smiled. "I am not in the market, Herr Müller."

                A smile crept back onto Gaby's face as she took a moment to announce Audrey Hepburn, the only actress she was a bit starstruck by.

                Illya watched her pass with reverence. "Dressed in Givenchy, as usual. I do not think Miss Hepburn can make a mistake."

                "You're partial to petite brunettes," remarked Napoleon.

                "Only ones with class."

                "And here comes Shelley Winters in Balenciaga," Gaby said, as she saw the producer of the Vietnam documentary out of the corner of her eye. _If it's going to happen--_

                "Boring," Illya pronounced, yawning as if on cue. "It puts me to sleep. Plain white column. No risks."

                "Would you rather she have sequins?" demanded Napoleon.

                It was at that moment that Jim Conway broke through the crowd. Gaby tore the gun from her thigh holster, aimed, and fired as he hit the red carpet; a chorus of screams erupted as the gun he'd been holding landed with a thud on the walkway, followed shortly by Conway himself. "It's all right!" shouted Gaby.

                Napoleon whipped out a badge. "CIA! It's all right, ladies and gentlemen!"

                An official-looking man with a bald spot and horn-rimmed glasses scurried over to them. "You are not German television hosts!" he sputtered, stating the obvious. "You are not-- you are not fashion critics--"

                Illya simply stared at him. "At least the blood has livened up Miss Winters' dress," he said calmly.

                Shelley Winters gaped at Illya, then down at her dress, which indeed was now decorated with a splatter of red. With a shriek, she fainted. Immediately, Audrey Hepburn ran to her aid, kneeling at her side.

                "See? This lady has class," Illya said to Napoleon in German.

                She looked up at them _. "Danke,"_ she said to Illya.

                He froze; for a moment, Gaby thought Illya would faint. "Come on," she said to him, tugging at his hand. "Don't forget which petite brunette with class you were fake-engaged to. We’ve got a mess to clean up and an Academy to explain ourselves to."

               

               

               


End file.
